


Tell Me What The Words Mean

by whatthefrickfrackpaddywack



Category: Supernatural
Genre: ALL CONSENT, All of the Consent, Bossy Dean, Bottom Sam, Brotherly Affection, Brotherly Angst, Confused Dean, Confused Sam, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Dom Dean, Dom/sub Undertones, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluffy Ending, Happy Ending, I AM SORRY, I'm Going to Hell, Incest, Light Angst, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, Light Masochism, Light Sadism, Praise Kink, Prank Wars, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Protective Dean Winchester, Sibling Incest, Sibling Rivalry, Sub Sam, This Is STUPID, Top Dean, Wincest - Freeform, confused everybody, dean telling sam what to do, everybody consented to the sin, forgive me mother, if u know what i mean, light everything, sin - Freeform, taking care of sammy, we are ALL going to hell, what is even going on any more, what the fuck its like three am and i need to pee, yas bitch gimme all dem tears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-07-28 09:24:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7634887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatthefrickfrackpaddywack/pseuds/whatthefrickfrackpaddywack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a prank war. Maybe this is Dean's idea of a prank.<br/>A twisted, confusing, slightly overwhelming prank.<br/>Or maybe Sam just needs to calm the fuck down.</p><p>(The one where Sam finds out he doesn't mind being told what to do as long as it's his big brother who's doing the talking.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> forgive me father for i have sinned

  It started because Dean was bored.

  On it's own, that's a fresh recipe for mass mutiny and punch-the-world-in-the-dickishness. Dean was ridiculously bad at entertaining himself for someone who was, ostensibly, supposed to be an adult. Add in a pinch of post-case high and a sprinkle of blue balls, and you've got yourself a weapon of unparalleled destruction.

  So Sam wasn't all that surprised to find a sock in his burrito. 

  "I give you three points for creativity, but you lose two of them because it was obvious," Sam bitched over the peels of laughter currently escaping Dean's mouth.

  "If it was so obvious, you wouldn't have taken a bite," he wheezed. Sam glared at the 14th century textbook that had fallen victim to his older brother's bed squirming and had sadly landed on the floor. "I deserve at least five points for that." 

  He stared glumly at his burrito and sighed. "You could've _at least_ used a clean one, man." That set Dean right off again, resulting in a copy of '16 uses for Troll Warts' to join it's fallen brethren on the dingy motel carpet.

 

  He got his chance at revenge later on that same day while they were on the road.

  "Driver picks the music," but shotgun is in charge of snacks, and when your eyes are glued to the highway, there isn't a whole lot of room for paranoia while you're eating your flaming Cheetos. Typically, Dean is pretty trusting of the food that Sammy places in his hands. So when his big brother grabbed a heaping handful out of the bag and shoved it in his mouth without taking his eyes off the road, Sammy desperately tried to keep a straight face while he chewed.

  Three seconds later, an unholy screech was ripped from his throat, half-chewed orange powder spewing over the dashboard as the taste of dried wasabi flakes finally kicked in.

 "SAAAAAAAM" Dean yelled, murder in his eyes as the car swerved into the wrong lane with his flailing attempts at decapitating his brother, who shaking so hard from laughter that he didn't even try and fight the sudden grip on the back of his neck. He was practically in tears, shoved up into his older brother's armpit in a headlock while cars beeped and the impala swerved through the sudden oncoming traffic. "WATER WHERE THE FU CK IS THE WATERGONNA KILL YOU-" 

  "I get ten points for creativity, and three for inflicting severe trauma." 

   "YOU'RE GONNA GETMYFUCKING BOOT UP YOURASSIF YOU DON'TGET ME SOMEWATERFUCKYOU-" His speech was slightly garbled from the Cheetos still dissolving on his tongue. Sam didn't stop laughing until Dean decided spitting into his hair was a fantastic idea.

  He was still smiling long after two empty plastic bottles had been chucked at his head.

  "You realize what you've done?" Dean asked, water dripping from the corners of his mouth, snot angrily rubbed off of his beet red face. "You've declared war. And you are going DOWN, bitch."

  "We'll see about that, jerk." Sammy grinned, bright and cinnamon sweet, until his big brother finally grunted and looked away, eye's soft and shoulders relaxing.

  

  Dean: 2. Sam: 6, and the Cheeto chunks he kept finding in his hair were worth it.

 

=================================

  

  Prank Wars are fun. They make things bright and playful, which is a fucking feat to find in their line of work, and anything that keeps Dean out of his spiral of self loathing and depression is something that Sammy doesn't think he'd be able to resist indulging.

  But Prank Wars are also different when you're no longer 15, and have access to heavy duty weaponry and supernatural voodoo.

  Basically, things were getting out of hand.

  Itching powder and saran wrap on the toilet bowel had quickly transcended into booby trapped bathroom doors and half dead rats in the coffee. The fiercely competitive nature that only those with siblings could understand had come raging to the surface and refused to leave until somebody was crowned king. Every move was met with distrust and suspicion. Sammy slept with one eye open, Dean clinging to his gun like it was a lifeline in the bed beside his, waiting for the other to make a move. Nights were either spent waiting anxiously in the darkness until one of them began the most physically intensive, fight-to-the-death pillow fight known to man, or dropping off at ungodly hours from pure fear induced exhaustion. It was like The Cold War: Winchester edition. The Iron Wall was a duck taped line down the middle of the front seat, separating shotgun and driver in a thinly veiled truce that was only _really_ put into play during Hunts. Two weeks of torture. Two weeks of War.

  Sam was contemplating whether or not it had been the best two weeks of his life.

  He had bruising on his arms from Dean taking a pillow fight a step too far and accidentally knocking his baby brother into a wall. Dean's left eyebrow was currently missing from an exploding taco during a ghost hunt last week. (Shortly after, the "No pranks during Hunts" rule had been added. (And fervently ignored.)) The food was sabotoged and the beds went virtually untouched, lease someone end up covered in whip cream and itching powder. Sammy hadn't eaten anything with lettuce in days. Dean hadn't touched a beer since that motel in Leadsworth.

  Sammy really should've known it was too good to last.

  Rumors up in Kentucky about a ghoul who preferred snacking on the living was what dragged it all to the hilt. 

  Sam was on caffeine duty that morning. Dean took enough sugar and cream in his that it could barely be constituted as coffee anymore, sweet tooth a mile wide and ten feet deep. Sam shoved open the motel door with his hip and dropped the room key from his teeth back onto the side table. "Knights In White Satin" could be heard from the closed bathroom door, a poor serenade in the form of Dean's whiskey and cigar voice attempting to reach the high notes. (His failure didn't discourage him; he kept on screeching.) Dean’s singing didn't falter as Sam quickly fumbled through the bed sheets, seeking out any attempt at sabotage but ultimately coming up with nothing. He went for his own duffel next, then the laptop satchel, then his folded-open book on the coverlet but came up with zero; no sign of itching powder, super glue, or spunk filled socks. Everything still in its rightful place.

  Feeling deeply disturbed, Sam sat back tentatively against his headboard, shifting his ass around to feel for potential booby-traps before he reached for his coffee again.

 He’d only just taken the first sip when Dean came out of the bathroom toweling his hair dry, jeans stuck in places to his still-damp skin; Saw his coffee, picked it up, stubbed his toe on the foot of Sam’s bed, and deposited said coffee all over Sam’s feet.

  "DEAN!" Sam pulled his feet back but it was too late. The coffee - thankfully lukewarm instead of scalding, at least - was soaked through the battered tongue and lacing of his sneakers and through socks right down to skin.

“Oh,” He groaned, “great, man, just _great_.”

“Oops,” Dean smirked, sprawled over the foot of the bed. He didn't even try to hide his grin. He just… _god._ Sam had just expected _more_. “Sorry.”

“Wow,” Sam muttered. “That was just _so_ imaginative, it took you what - a whole fifteen minutes to think of? That must be a record for you. Way to go, Dean. _Way to go._ ”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, Sammy.” Dean flipped onto his back, hands behind his head, still beaming. Sam’s feet squelching when he stomped them into the bathroom, huffing. Sure, at least this means that the morning glory prank isn't going to be surprise nairing, but  _god._  It’s _insulting_ is what it is, and goddammit, Sam only has one clean pair of socks _left_. He’d never foreseen something as petty as _this_ when he started stockpiling for upcoming threats.

  He made a point of chucking the coffee-soaked socks on Dean’s unmade bed after he’d peeled them off, twisting the knob on the bathtub so that he could clean off the sticky more-cream-than-coffee substance off of his toes.“Honestly?” he calls twourds the open door, “I’m disappointed in you, Dean.” He pulled out the knob after he had the heat on medium, body hunched over the tub with his feet under the faucet. “ _So_ disapp–AUGH!”

He jerked in a panic as water starts assaulting him from on high, seeping into his t-shirt and soaking his hair before he realized what was going on and blindly threw himself at the faucet to try and turn it off. Dean was laughing. Dean was laughing his freaking _head_ off, and Sam _still_ wasn't sure what just happened. He finally slammed the knob, shutting off the reign of terror from above, and Sammy was  _positive_ he hadn't turned the shower on when he got in-

  Oh.

   _oh._

He only now noticed the duct tape keeping the button firmly up on the shower head.

  He stomped back into the bedroom like a wet dog, sopping jeans forming a pool of water at his feet as Dean cackled.

  Dean dabbed at his eyes; only partially for show, and wheezed as his laughter slowed. The rapidity at which he put on a straight face made Sam feel abruptly out of his depth. “I can't fucking  _believe_ you didn't catch that,” he grinned, moving his arms up behind him to cushion his head. "I think that deserves five points for creativity, and seven for catching you  _so fucking off guard,_ you should've heard yourself scream, Sammy-"

  Dean'd got the back of his hand pressed against his eyes, mouth wide open and cackling when Sam caught sight of his own coffee, abandoned, on the side table. His revenge was unoriginal, maybe, but that just made the poeticism of his next action kinda postmodern in its execution.

  Dean shrieked when Sam upended the coffee over his groin, and Sam couldn't help but wish he took more sugar in it so that Dean had to deal with the same sticky-gross mess on his crotch that Sam had to deal with, but that was pretty much his last coherent thought before Dean’s arms wrapped bear-like around his waist and Sam was tackled to the floor.

  Dean’s always fought dirty; it’s possibly the lesser of two evils that it ends with Dean’s head instead of his ass in Sam’s face. There's hair pulling and nipple twisting and some truly effeminate shrieking when tickling gets involved that most definitely _did not_ come out of Sammy's mouth. Sam might have the height advantage, but Dean is still a 200 pound, pissed off _hunter,_ and he's always been the more dangerous one in a fight. Sam prefers the bookwork; And when it comes to hand-to-hand combat, he stays on the defensive unless he absolutely has to. Dean, on the other hand, was out for  _blood._

  He sat on Sam’s chest, bony ass digging into Sam’s ribs and his knees pinning Sam’s biceps down on either side. Sam flailed futilely, attempting to buck Dean off but his older brother just grabbed his hair and yanked, unperturbed. Sam had a last thought of _at least I managed to get him wet_  before Dean's thick hands got a grip on his face, pried his jaw open...

  And spit into his mouth.

  Sam went still.

   _what the fUCK._

  Dean didn't look like he was playing anymore, hard glint in his eyes as he mashed Sam’s jaw closed again. Sammy struggled to get his mouth open, refusing to swallow the fucking _spit_ on his tongue _,_  but Dean's grip on him was iron clad, grilled in and full proof from years of Dad's training. Sam's breathing started coming faster, furious and extremely confused and  _what the fuck is happening._ Dean let go of his jaw, but before he could open his mouth to spit into his older brothers eye, there was hot breathe on his ear, whiskey deep and coffee creamer sweet.

  "Swallow it, bitch."

  Sam froze.

  Dean's voice has like ice, sharp and furious and unwavering. It wasn't quite like the tone he used when interrogating some poor demon who happened to cross paths with them when he was in one of his I-haven't-gotten-laid-in-days moods. It was a cross between the sultry voice he used in especially high-end bars, when he had to work for it to get the girls dropping their panties, and the Dad-isn't-here-so-I'm-in-charge tone that was around for the better part of Sam's early years. It was a voice he hadn't heard before, full of patience and authority and  _you will fucking obey me-_

Sam swallowed. 

  Dean shushed softly in his ear, hands ruffling through his hair gently. "Good boy."

  Sam's cock twitched.

   _what thE FUCK._

Dean sat up and stretched his arms above his head until he heard a pop, hips driving into Sammy's chest in a way that was  _not fucking helping_ the hyperventilating situation. He didn't seem to notice, though, as he gave Sam's cheek a little pat and stood up. "We should start packing up the trunk; Paducah is like four hours away, and I wanna get there in time for lunch." He leaned over and started ruffling through his bad for a shirt, grumbling about having to change pants as Sammy sat stock still and stared blankly at the ceiling. 

 He was quite rudely ripped from his internal screaming when a now fully clothed Dean tossed a duffel onto his chest, causing the air to leave his lungs in an  _oomph._ "Want me to piggy back you to the car?"

 Sam continued his intense staring contest with the ceiling. There was a speck of mildew in the corner that looked strangely like his AP lit professor. He nodded wordlessly.

 "Okay.” Dean gave Sam one last pat, bed springs rocking to his right as his big brother sat down. “Bitch," he said, not without affection.

 "Jerk," Sam whispered. 

  _what the_ _FUCK._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a one-shot but ya'll kept begging me so HERE have your filth.  
> ( kidding i love u )

  This was a prank.

  It had to be. Dean was messing with him. He'd apologized for the spitting-in-his-fucking-mouth thing, (which meant he'd bought twelve packs of freeze dried bananas and a new pair of headphones for him while grinning from ear to ear,) but he apparently had no idea that Sam was kicking himself in the face trying to forget what his voice had sounded like. Dean didn't talk to Sammy like that. He'd  _never_ talked to Sammy like that. 

  "Hey Moody Jones, you gonna say something in the next ten years?"

  Sam jerks in his seat.

  Dean was looking at him curiously, puffy pink lips turned down at the corners. Sam looks around to see that they were pulling up to a 7/11, green neon lights flashing in the 2:00 a.m stillness of Illinois. There are only two pumps, one of which is occupied by a red Toyota Seneca.

  Sam scrubbed angrily at his eyes and sighed. "Sorry. Just tired." Dean parked at the open pump and pulled the keys out of the ignition before turning to face Sam head on.

  "Then why haven't you been sleeping for the past two hundred fucking miles?" He gripes. "We need you charged up if this thing ends up being demonic possession, which by all accounts it fucking is, and you know I'm shit at those fancy Latin vowels. If you fall asleep in the middle of an exorcism, I'm gonna throw you in the trunk and drive off a cliff."

  Sam snorted. "I'm fine, De. I'll sleep the rest of the way."

  "You better," Dean grumbles as he pushes up out of the car. He grabs his wallet out of the glove compartment and tosses it to his younger brother. "Chocolate pretzels and salt and vinegar chips."

  "I don't think they sell those in this part of the country, dude." Sam catches it and starts his way twourds the store front. 

  "Come back with anything but my chips, and I'm gonna kick your ass," He calls from after him. Sam snorts and pockets the wallet.

   _Just a prank._

 

  The problem with this whole "Dean-has-simply-thought-out-a-new-and-confusingly-arousing-way-to-make-me-uncomfortable" theory was that they'd forfeited the Prank War three days ago. After they finished the job in Paducah, (turns out the ghouls were having a turf war with fucking  _arachnids,_ was nothing simple anymore?) Sam found worms in his pillow case, which Dean tried to make him eat. To Sammy's absolute horror, Dean used  _that voice,_ ( " _Don't fucking spit it out, bitch. That's it, Sammy. Swallow it, c'mon Sammy, that's it, c'mon...")_ And Sam had had a fucking panic attack. Thank  _god_ Dean was holding him from behind, because there is no fucking way he would've been able to hide how achingly hard he was if they'd been facing each other. With a well placed elbow jab to that spot in between Dean's ribs, he'd managed to break free and belt it to the bathroom, door slamming shut behind him. When he came out, Dean declared a truce and rubbed Sam's back on the bed where he'd curled up, murmuring, "Took it too far, Sammy. M'sorry, I'll go get you some frozen yogurt or some shit, bad joke..." Sam shook slightly. Dean thought he was up-chucking the worms in the toilet. 

Sam snorts in the dimly lit junk food aisle.

  If only Dean knew how fucking far he'd taken it.

  Sam was trying to scrape it from his mind and shove it under a cement truck, light it on fire and blow up the grave. But the memory of Dean's smirk, thick calloused hand pressed against his mouth with a hint of laughter in his whiskey scratched voice,  _that voice..._  

  ...You can probably guess what he'd been doing in the bathroom.

  The worst top forty station was playing softly over his head, mini bag of chocolate pretzels casually clutched in his left hand as he peruses the chips on the little white shelf. Surprisingly, they actually  _did_ have salt and vinegar. He smiles to himself and grabs the big bag. Dean practically inhaled these things when they were around. He could eat them until he couldn't feel his tongue any more. One of the reasons they didn't get them as often as his big brother liked.

  The little bell at the top of the door rings, clear and loud through the quiet of the small 7/11. It was probably Dean, coming in to make sure Sam didn't try and go easy on the coffee creamer from his place at the espresso machine. Sam preferred stores like this, where he could make the coffee himself instead of wait at a corner while the poor overworked cashier would mess it up-

  "Open the fucking register!" Sam startles, almost dropping his coffee as he turns to face the shaking voice.

  It was a kid. Couldn't be older then twenty, with a .22 rimfire pistol shaking dangerously in his outstretched hand, black knit cap failing to hide his sweaty blonde hair. "Put the money in the fucking bag, mother fucker-" his voice cracked, unease leaking off of him in buckets as the poor woman at the register stood petrified behind the counter. 

  "Hey, you!"

  There were moments where Sam's height was an advantage. But being at least a foot taller then the convenience store shelves put him in the fucking annoying ass situation of being seen in the mirror behind the counter, and now twenty year old kid was sticking a gun in his face.

  "Gimme your fucking wallet!" Sam could see the sweat dripping off of his forehead, dirty brown hoodie hanging off his shoulders and making Sam groan internally. This was a  _kid._ Never mind the fact that Sam was technically only a couple years older than him. Some dirty blonde boy was waving a trigger happy .22 under his nose, and like a fucking idiot Sam wasn't packing.

  "Okay, okay. Just calm down." Sam was getting kinda pissed. Dean hustled for  _hours_ last night to win the cash in his pocket, and they actually  _needed_ this money. They had a long drive ahead of them, and Sam refused to entertain the idea of sleeping in the car another night. 

  "Don't play games with me, faggot! Just put the wallet in the bag!" His finger was getting dangerously close to the trigger, gun pressing up against Sams chest, and that was  _so_ gonna be more then a flesh wound if he didn't calm this fucking kid down. Reluctantly, he dropped the wallet into the kids bag, (Iron man pillow case, Jesus,) When a voice like honey and steel caused his skin to freeze.

  "Hey, it's the twenty first century, fucker. Cut the homophobic bullshit."

   _He was using that stupid fucking voice._

  Dean had somehow managed to sneak in behind the kid without Sam noticing. (Damn, he must've been tireder then he thought.) His glock was pressed up against the curve of the blonde kids spine, digging in harder then strictly necessary. Blonde's eyes widened and his hand shook, tightening on the gun in a way that had Sam slamming his eyes shut and bracing himself.

  "Ah ah ah, kid. You'll be dead before you even pull the trigger." Dean was looking at Sam as he talked, hard steel and perfect poker face hiding any trace of mercy or fear. but Sam knew him, better then anyone, and he could see his leg shake.

  Dean was scared.

  "Now listen carefully, bitch. 'Cause it's the only way you're gonna get out of this alive. Do you hear me?" Blonde whimpered. "I said,  _do you fucking hear me?_ " He nodded emphatically, hair shaking loose from his black cap. 

  "Now, you're pointing a gun at someone I care about. And that's scaring me. And when I get scared, I tend to get a little trigger happy. We don't want that, do we?" Sam swallowed down the whimper that was trying to crawl out of his throat, hands fisted tight enough to crush the pretzels in his hand. He was biting his cheek so hard he could taste blood, red hot and throbbing in his mouth at the sound of  _that stupid, commanding, confusing as fuck voice..._

 "Answer me, bitch."

 Sam slams his eyes shut, frustration and humiliation swimming along his skin at the first peek of interest from his _stupid fucking dick_ , stop that right now young man-

 "Shoulda fucking known you were queers" He spat, cheeks burning almost as bubble gum pink as Sam. Dean chuckles darkly and digs the barrel harder into the kids back. 

  "You're making me scared again, kiddo. I think my finger might just slip." He stuck his bottom lip out in a pout, plump and puckered and irrationally distracting. "So I suggest you do everything I say if you want to keep your spinal cord."

  Sam could feel his pulse jumping in his throat, heart hammering away and laving him ramrod straight and boneless. he could feel Dean's honey sticky voice coating his ears, seeping into his skin and wrapping his rib cage in cotton candy. Those eyes were staring into him, candy apple green wide in a contradiction to his drill sergeant commands. Sammy felt like a little kid again, caught with his hand in the ammo bag while De stood over him in tight laced anger and relief that he hadn't accidentally shot himself. He felt a million miles away from here, stuck in a haze of  _yes sir, no sir_ that he hated more then anything. But something about Dean's voice, his big brother-dad voice, was gnawing away at Sam's corneas and making him want to drop to his knees.

  "Here's whats gonna happen: You're gonna drop the gun. I'm gonna kick it to Sammy and Sammy is gonna pick it up and walk away. I'm a pretty patient guy, Johnny Cash, but you're aiming a gun at my baby brothers chest. That's testing my patience a little bit." The kid was shock white, sweat glistening on his brow and reflecting the dingy light from the ceiling. "But I'm also pretty fucking forgiving, so as soon as my baby boy here is safely away in our car, you're gonna run. And you better fucking hope that I don't catch you."

  He drops the gun.

  Sam let out a breathe he hadn't realized he was holding

  "Good boy."

   _god fuCKING DAMN IT NOT NOW BONER GO AWAY_   _u lil shit-_

Sam looks down as the gun was kicked his way, grimacing slightly when his dick jumps in his pants from the intensity of De's gaze. Burning red hot and flustered, he leans down and picks the gun up. 

  "That's it, Sammy. Now go to the car."

  "Wait, Dean-"

   _"I said go to the fucking car."_

Sam resolutely does  _not_ squeal.

  

 He sits in the passenger side and thinks of dead puppies, starving children, his fifth grade teacher Mrs. Kawasaki in a bikini. ANYTHING to get this stupid thing down before Dean gets back to the Impala.

  He glares at his hard-on like it murdered his family. "You stop this."

  It doesn't appear to be listening.

  Sam groans and smacks his head on the dashboard, knees pulled up tight against his chest in despair. Once was an accident. Twice was a freak occurrence of nature. Three times was a pattern.

  He doesn't even entertain the possibility of a fourth.

  He wonders to himself what it would've felt like if he hadn't run away last time, when he was tugged flush against his big brothers chest and practically in his lap. Toned muscles holding him still as he squirmed. Hot pink lips on his ear, breathing out sugar sweet and steady. Strong arms wrapped around his waist to force him small in a way that only Dean ever could, a way that only Dean _can_ anymore. Sam's breathe hitches, head shifting on the dash when his cock throbs in his dusty jeans. 

  What would Dean do, if he'd happened to glance down and see his baby brother hard and aching for him in his lap. Would he yell in disgust, kicking Sam away and stomping off in a huff? Would he look away and pretend it didn't happen, filing it under #64 of Things-the-Winchesters-dare-not-mention?

  Would he touch him?

  "Oh," Sam breathes out, hair starting to stick to his forehead where sweat was accumulating. His hands grasp his thighs in a death grip, bunching up the material of faded denim in a pair of too big hands. Dean's hands are smaller then his, but _masculine_ in a way that Sam's thin fingers can't emulate. Hard and callused and impossibly gentle while stitching him up after a hunt. Sam's fingers are long and angular; Dean's short and square with shotgun shelled powder leaked almost into the skin. What would it feel like to touch them? To feel those fingers touch _him?_   Would Dean grab him, rough and tight and agonizing? Commanding like his voice, heavy thickness stroking up Sam's arms, Sam's chest, manipulating him into whatever position he wanted. Or would he be soft, sure and steady and impossibly gentle? Coaxing wet and patient around his skin, make him open and pliant, press bubble gum kisses into his neck as trails of words followed after him? Sam's left hand inched higher up his thigh, thumb pressing shakily into the fabric where his dick stood up. He can see it, aching and wet while Dean holds him down. Would he talk Sammy through it? Whiskey deep voice grunting out commands, big brother-dad voice telling him what to do, how to do it,  _that's it, baby, just like that, c'mon baby boy, nice and hard for De, aren't you..._

"Oooo chips!" Dean plops down into the drivers side and rips open the bag of slightly crushed chips.

  Sam's life flashes before his eyes.

  "Poor kid almost pissed himself trying to get out of there, you shoulda seen his face Sammy" Dean chuckles around a mouthful of vinegary goodness, before choking slightly from inhaling too fast. "I started quoting Taxi Driver after he ran out the door. Hey, you think I'd make a good Travis Bickle?" His big brother grins and starts the engine, full tank purring as they pull out and drive west.

  Sam attempts a weak laugh, but what leaves his mouth instead is a squeak.  _Stupid fucking dick and it's terrible timing_

  Dean looks over with a frown. "Hey, you okay there kiddo?" His freckles fold into the crinkles of his nose, playing hide and seek with the thousand plus expressions of his face. Sam opens his mouth dumbly, but no sound comes out. He prays to every deity he can think of that Dean won't notice his knees pulled up to his chest, hiding his traitorous erection.

  "Listen, man. It's okay, he had a gun. There's no way you could've handled that alone. That's why you've got me. Partners in crime, am I right?" He flashed a concerned smile Sam's way, eyes soft and melty, only for Sam.

  He snorted. Dean thought he was being bitchy about not being able to handle one skinny white kid. His head felt wrecked apart like claws though soft, fatty tissue, confused and humiliated and _ugh._  Partners in crime. _Yeah right._ Sam was all legs and edges, gangley and lean. He was a ticking time bomb and he was all Dean’s. Wrapped around his little finger like a carousel. 

  "Hey, don't freak out about what happened. He would've shot you back to the middle ages if you hadn't froze up-"

  "I did NOT freeze up, I was waiting for you to get your fat ass inside-"

  "Waiting for me to save you? Aw Sam, I didn't know you felt that way-"

  Sam chucked the pretzel packet at his head, Dean laughing way too easily for someone who had just single handedly averted an armed robbery.

  Wait.

  "Did you get your wallet back?"

  Dean groaned and thumped his head against the steering wheel. "Dammit. Guess we're sleeping in the car tonight. It's gonna be cold as balls."

  Sam's mind immediately conjured up several unwelcome ideas of how they could stay warm.

  This was gonna be a long drive.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is from Dean's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GIMME ALL THE ANGST, BITHCES  
> It's 5:41 in the morning and this is the best thing I've ever written.

  Sammy has been acting fucking weird.

  Dean's pretty sure it's been going on for a while, but he only really started to notice during that last case in Montana. Sammy was bitching about the music, squirming in his seat unhappily 'cause they'd been drivn' for a long while by then, and Dean refused to change the station. He'd laughed, teasing his younger brother good naturally and belting out Iron Butterfly's "Scorching Beauty"as loudly as he could. Dean loved this; The familial cycle of arguments that held no heat and insults that were met with a butterscotch smile. The push and pull of the banter flying past them was as easy as breathing, as easy as loading a gun and taking care of Sammy. It was so easy, in fact, to slide into their routine, that Dean didn't notice how tightly Sams mouth was pressed together every time he flung his hand out and grinned at him, covering Ron Bushy's candy glass voice with an out of tune boom of his own. He was so into the moment that he didn't see the way Sam's fists clenched when Dean wriggled his eyebrows and poured out, " _take me in hand, make me a man,"_ Didn't feel the intake of breathe after Sam yelled at him to turn the volume down and he cackled, grabbing him by the scruff of his neck and pulling him under his arm, warmth blossoming in his chest as he trilled out, " _I never would go, you know you know, oh I can't make it without you..."_ Didn't feel his little shivers as he scraped blunt nails against his baby brothers scalp the way he liked, pulling slightly to annoy him. He didn't notice the way Sammy tensed, livewire thrummed to the breaking point, when he smiled into the kiss at the top of Sam's head...

  Until Sam shot up and yanked the tape out of the stereo and chucked it out the window.

  Now  _that,_ Dean fucking noticed.

  "What the hell!?" He (absolutely did not) shriek in a panic as his precious Ron Bushy was flung into the road behind them. The car was yanked to a screeching hault at the side of the road, baby wining in protest as Dean turned to his brother in a fury, good mood all but incinerated.

  "What the  _fuck_ was that for, man!?" He yelled in indignation. Sammy's cheeks were kinda flushed, soft bubble gum pink hidden under brown baby bangs that he refused to cut short. "I  _loved_ that album!"

  His brother squirmed even harder on the seat, too long legs shifting restlessly as he refused to meet Dean's gaze. "That album sucks, Dean."

  Dean's mouth fell open. "You  _bought_ me that album."

  Sam's hands were shoved deep in his pockets, shrug rolling from one broad shoulder to the other in an uncomfortable wave. "I did?"

  "Uh, yeah. For my eighteenth Birthday?"

  "Huh. Guess I don't remember."

  "You made me sit in the living room for half an hour with Christina Barth's panty hose wrapped around my head so that I wouldn't peek while you wrapped it, dumbass."

  "I must've just picked it up at the thrift store or something. Don't even remember buying it."

  "You made me drive you two hours south because you heard a rumor it was at a used record store in Ohio."

  "...huh."

  "..."

  "..."

  "BITCH YOU TOOK IT TO FUCKING STANFORD WITH YOU!"

  Sam's knee jerked up in annoyance, angry wine crawling out of his throat as his eyebrows scrunched, face the same as the one he makes when he's trying to crack a case and what's that thing's name goddamnit,  _it's on the tip of his tongue._ Dean could see his frustration building the same way it always has, ever since he was a little kid, when he wasn't getting something he wanted. This time Dean was just staring at him incredulously, because he had no idea what his little brother wanted.

  Sam's head shot up, eyes noticeably big, flush higher up on sharp edged cheekbones as he said, defiantly, "Ron is never going to replace Doug."

  Dean's nostrils flared.

  "What the fuck did you just say?" He asked quietly. Calmly.

  The tension Sam had been holding all but seeped out, leaving him soft and open, big eyes finally meeting candy green as his mouth made a slack jawed 'oh.'

  ...wut.

  Dean was pissed. Fucking furious. But he was also fucking confused, eyes clear and head questioning as he took in Sam's change in posture at the tone of his voice. But right now wasn't the time to analyze his weird ass dork of a brother.

  "Are you telling me you drop kicked my fucking birthday present out the car door window because you liked that little  _horsefucker_  Doug Isle better?"

   For an inhumanly huge monster hunter, Sam sure did know how to make himself look small.

  "Look me in the eye when I'm talking to you, Sam." his head snapped up, little rose bud mouth open and panting slightly, and Dean almost flinched at the sight and had to squash down the thought before it formed. "Good boy." And did Sam's eyelids fucking flutter??

  Dean closed his eyes as he continued, because  _what the fuck, what the fuck,_ why the hell was Sammy making that face? He shook his head and kept the calm, collected control steady as he continued,  _don't fucking think about it, don't you fucking dare-_ "Listen to me very carefully Sammy. Are you listening?"

  Dean had to assume Sam shook his head yes, but he wasn't in the mood, anger slowly transforming into confusion into control because he wasn't going to let even a glimmer of hope out of the clenched tight copic jar he kept those thoughts in. "Answer me, boy."

  He heard a soft exhale, even softer quiver of a baby boy voice let out, "I'm listening, Dean." 

  Dean held in the urge to sigh and opened his eyes again, to see Sam waaaaaaay closer then he'd been before, sweet baby Jesus on a hotcross bun-"You're going to open the car door, get out, and go find my cassette tape. Okay Sammy?" His voice was gentler then it'd been before, mostly because his little brother's face was so soft and flushed, caramel sticky eyelashes fluttering across cheeks that shouldn't look so baby soft, so little boy chubby. He held his hand steady as he reached out, fingers firmly pressing tangled brown bangs from a high forehead, Sam imperceptibly leaning into the touch on a shaky breathe. "Can you do that for me, baby?"

  Okay, Sam's eyelids  _definatley_ fucking fluttered that time, crooning sound escaping the long line of his kissable throat  _shut the fuck up shove it into the fucking copic jar-_ " 'kay." He murmured, sounding far too satisfied for Dean's far too confused mind to handle. Sammy slowly leaned back across the seat and opened the door, movement almost drunk in it's softness.  Dean gripped both hands on the wheel and pushed his thoughts away, left only in confusion and unease by the time Sam ambled back into the car fifteen minutes later and grumbled an apology. Dean gathered his freakn' weirdly compliant brother under his arm and popped in a Zeppelin tape instead, idly running hands through long chestnut hair and chalking the whole experience up to an empty stomach.

  But then it kept happening.

  Dean barely even noticed, thinking Sam was just being an irritable ass and leaving it at that. But there were times where he almost thought Sam was provoking him on  _purpose,_ (that was Dean's job, dammnit,) and get even more frustrated when Dean finally started yelling. But then there were moments, just small little glimpses, where instead of storming off in a huff Sam would go droopy eyed and adoring, would do whatever Dean asked him to do with a pink lipped " 'kay, De," and would curl up afterwards like a kitten, make himself small and soft and Dean was spending more time then he ever had shoving his thoughts,  _don't fucking think about it, don't you fucking dare,_ back into the copic jar. Back in Birmingham when they'd gone after a racist ghost stuck in a wellington boot, when the frantic whispering wasn't grabbing Sam's attention and he'd had to break out his "Dad" voice, and Sam's hysterical flailing at the arsenal of packing peanuts assaulting him and died down fucking instantly, turning him all droopy and quiet and "Yeah, De?" Looking over to his big brother as if he had all the answers to the universe hidden away in his faded leather jacket. It caught Dean so off guard he didn't see the shrieking fifty year old woman running full speed at him with a highchair, and the moment was shattered as Sam went instantly back to bitchy-  _I can't believe you dean we are fighting ghosts at three a.m i could've been a fucking lawyer no i am not going to help you up get your own crowbar don't touch me you heathen-_

  That's not even mentioning the bar fight in Santa Fe, full blown knock-out-your-teeth flying fists, and they'd had to make a run for it with twenty burly bikers chasing them back to the motel. Dean had almost had this sweet little brunette in the bag, too, all ready to take her home and suck her clit 'till she was crying and calln' him Daddy.

  That's another thing- Dean was having trouble pulling  _anybody_ anymore. Every bar he crawled, he would strike up a conversation with the first chick eyefucking him through the door, but somehow they'd always end up tapering off in the middle. It's not that they weren't  _interested;_ Dean may not have finished highschool, but he knew his fucking biology. When a cherry tight double D was crossing her pretty brown legs and biting her big cocoa lips and looking at him like she was going to jump him right then and there, audience be damned, it probably meant she wanted sex. But all those tell tale signs would shiver off mid convo, as soon as Sam came back from the bathroom and took a swig of his beer, or leaned in to say something over the noise with a large hand spanning the small of his back. They'd still be talking, but the flirtations turned into adored cooing or embarrassed banter, and dean was left with a puppy dog brother tucking himself into his side as they smiled and walked away.

  Dean was so confused.

  And then the _touching_ started.

  Dean actually didn't mind this part, but he was confident it had something to do with all the other freaky shit Sam had been up to. Dean would be cleaning his guns, driving along the highway, doing the laundry, and Sam would just show up and plop himself against his back, his side, his fucking  _lap,_ without a word. There was no rhyme or reason, and certainly no explanation, as to why and when it would happen. It just  _did._ He'd drive through the night with a lap full of Sammy's snoring head, puppy dog nose furring into the folds on his shirt as the highway sped by in front of them. He would come up behind him while he was throwing clothes in the dryer, thump his head down on Deans shoulder and press tight against his back, hands slack at his side and forehead rubbing between Dean's shoulder blades. He'd sneak his feet under Dean's thighs while on the couch. His hands would linger on coffee cup passes and feet would tangle under Diner booth tables. And while Dean was a macho manly man, burgers and guns and fyi I like vagina, he craved those touches like a dying man. (A macho, monster fighting dying man with a killer car and a big dick, thank-you-very-much.)

  Sammy had stopped touching him shortly after he turned thirteen. No more crawling into bed with him when he had a nightmare. No more curling into his side on the couch and fighting for the remote when they watched T.V. No more piggy back rides in the grocery store, see-you-after-school hugs, forehead kisses or sugar sweet nose boops. And Dean figured, yeah, the kid's probably growing out of those things, and yeah, sharing a bed with your brother is fucking weird after a certain age, but that didn't mean he didn't miss it so hard he ached. He hadn't exactly gotten a lot of affection from their dad, hardened and guilt ridden as he'd been when Dean was at the age when most kids needed it most, so he made sure to give it back to Sammy ten-fold. And when the touches stopped, he let them, because it was Sammy's choice and if he was too cool for see-you-after-school hugs, forehead kisses or sugar sweet nose boops, then Dean wasn't going to cramp his style. After the touches stopped, the laughter faded, and an angry boy replaced his sweet baby with scowls instead of smiles, fights instead of teasing, brooding hair that Dean wasn't allowed to sweep out of his hazelnut eyes anymore. It was a downward spiral of growing up and growing apart, and the hammering in his young chest had been shoved into a glass jar and hidden in the pit of his stomach to protect his baby boy, to punish his disgusting, twisted mind, to make sure he could keep his brother without killing himself in the process. To love Sam has always been less butterflies in the belly, more butterfly knife to the chest.

  So the fact that Sam was _touching_ him again was making his manly-man heart dance a drunk off-it's-ass victory jig and his chest go heavy with affection that he'd almost forgotten how to carry.

  It also made him remember why he never pushed for the hugs when Sam stopped initiating them, and that fucking copic jar at the pit of his stomach was riled up and ready to go, hammering the glass and fracturing the sides as it begged to pour free, and Dean wouldn't let it.

  He couldn't let it.

  Dean's not sure when, exactly, it started, but he sure as hell knows that it ain't gonna continue. 

 

\----------------------------------------------

 

 "I can't believe you struck out," Sam says, laughing and kicking lightly at Dean's back with his foot. "I don't think I've ever seen you get rejected. Ever. Good to know you're human under that layer of Professional Sleazeball." Dean grits his teeth in annoyance.

  He'd almost had this in the bag, one word away from dragging the blue eyed college girl off his lap and into the back seat of his car, when Sam had come up and freaking _grabbed his hand_ right there and literally pulled him away because he wanted to look at the fishes, and ' _what's the point of an aquarium bar if you aren't going to look at it,_ De.'Blondie had been beet red with embarrassment over  _something,_ stammering out I-didn't-know's and that-is-just-so-precious, before smiling awkwardly and giving Dean a regretful hug, walking back over to the table with the screaming frat boys trying to pole dance with a mop. Leaving Dean confused and half hard in his jeans as Sam pointed to the ugliest looking blowfish Dean had ever seen in his life, _"That one looks like you,"_ squeezing his hand and tugging him over to the sharks by the bar.

  "Well maybe if you hadn't gone all girly on my ass, she wouldn't've ran back to fuck boy #17."  Sam's actually guffawing, now, and it's so grating—Dean can't really help himself. It's just this kneejerk response—he grabs the closest thing to his hand and takes a big whopping swing at Sammy's gleeful little face. The _whumpf_ of the pillow hitting home is deeply satisfying.  
  
 " _Hey!_ " Sam shouts, ducking and rolling with the force of the blow and coming up on the other side of the bed. "You  _liked_ the shark exhibit, it was the whole reason we went to that bar to begin with!" Dean laughs high in his chest and dives headfirst onto his little brothers bed, aiming for the spot between his ribs which'd leave him dead. Sam moves with surprising speed, and he grabs the other pillow and leaps back on before Dean is even turned around, beaning him across the back of the head with a break-neck strength. At which point all hell breaks loose, of course. Dean grabs the two end corners of his pillow and just starts whaling on Sam with both hands, while Sam rolls over onto his back with his kicking feet on defense and flailing arm on offense, creaming Dean upside the head whenever he has an opening.  
  
  It isn't long before Dean can't stand the stalemate, so he throws his pillow to the side and flings himself down on top of Sam, straight into the fray, making his Hail Mary pass. He digs his fingers into Sammy's sides with abandon, braving the kicks and pillow-beatings just long enough to hit that perfect spot with just the right amount of pressure that makes Sam jerk and squeal like he doesn't even know what the word dignity means. Sam's pillow goes flying and all his crazy flailing gangly limbs crumple into a tight little ball, hands spread over his sides to try and keep Dean's fingers away. It never works, though. Dean knows all his little spots, and when Sammy's covering his sides, Dean goes for behind his knee. When Sammy's gripping his shins and pulling his heels up to his butt, almost smacking Dean in the face with a leg that goes on for days, he goes for the center of his stomach. And on and on until Sam's face is beet red and streaming with tears, his peals of laughter gone all the way past shrill to completely silent as he just shakes and rolls and fruitlessly tries to wriggle out of Dean's grasp while Dean gets his fingers into Sammy's pits.  
  
  Dean's panting too, now, smiling so broad he thinks his face might break. Sammy just sounds so sweet and young like this, looks so carefree when Dean's tickling him and he can't help laughing like he's a kid again, cherry sweet and cinnamon raw, no matter how tall he's gotten or how easily he could kill a man with his bare hands.

  Finally they settle, breathing hard and deep, Deans hips snug over Sam and arms cradling his rosy pink face. 

  As his breathing evens out, Sam starts squirming under him, just a subconscious rock of his hips up off the motel mattress-

  Oh.

  Dean can't fucking breath.

  Sam is hard.

  Sammy is under his hands, hard dick pressing up against Dean's flaccid one through his jeans, and he's smiling up at Dean with those baby doll eyes and sticky sweet dimples and his messy brown hair is sticking to his sweaty forehead, and Dean can't fucking breathe.

  To his horror, he feels his cock twitch.

  There's a chance Sammy hasn't noticed yet, and chance Dean can make a joke and jump up before Sam even realizes he's circling his hips up into his big brothers, Dean's fists gripping the sheets so hard he thinks he's gonna burst a blood vessel. Everything's sort of fuzzy, and there's this sick thrill knotting up Dean's guts and he doesn't know whether he's gonna throw up or jizz in his underwear. Dean can't breathe, because the sweet little baby boy he bottle fed from crib to crawl is rubbing his not-so-little dick up against Dean's weeping hard on, and Dean is disgusting, he's sick, he's rocking his hips down so so softly and  _don't fucking think about it, don't you fucking dare-_

 _"..._ Dean."

   Dean's eyes scrunch tight and he feels his heart breaking as the copic jar in the pit of his stomach shatters.

   This is Dean's not-so-little-anymore dork of a brother, his baby, his Sammy, and Dean a sick, sick man for wanting this, wanting it so badly he can't fucking breathe, wanting Sammy's girlfriend kisses and craving his baby brother couch cuddles and wanting to rip his fucking clothes off and flip him over onto all fours and fuck the living shit out of him, get all up in Sammy's cherry pink hole and split him right open and fill him full of come until he messes himself all up and cries.

  Dean, manly-man of macho-ness and fyi I like vagina, thinks he's the one who's going to start crying.

  But then he hears a groan, so deep and desprete as Sammy arches off the bed, and hope shoots through him so fast he feels light headed. He opens his eyes.

  Sammy is panting hard, eyes wide and pupils blown as he ruts up into Dean, and his heart is a firework shooting off above an apple pie that Jennifer Lawrence is dancing naked on top of while Stevie Wonder sings in the background. Dean let's out what some could interpret as a sob, (Deans swears to knock their teeth out first chance he gets,) and leans down to finally, ( _finallyfinallyfinally,)_ kiss him.

  Dean growls, deep and happy, as he tongues his way into Sam's mouth, leaving it wet and open and so fucking perfect, teeth grazing bottom lips and sticky girlfriend kisses singing in the drunken corners of Dean's screeching mind. His breath is steady, hands firm, as he holds his whimpering baby still and fucks deep and dirty into his brothers pliant mouth.

  Sam keeps trying to buck up, trying to go hard, fast,  _now,_ but Dean isn't having it. He's waited too fucking long for this, never even entertained the idea of having this, and "We are going to go  _at my fucking pace,_ Sam."

  Sam stills instantly.

  Dean grins, happy heart taking body shots off of Scarlet Johhanson in his brain.

  "Good boy."

  He shivers, opens that kiss-swollen wet mouth open in a silent plea.

  Dean gradually pulls his hands away, listening to Sam's heavy breathing mingling with his own. "Hey, baby," he murmurs, and Sam exhales drunkenly, relaxes, just looking up at Dean from on his back, Dean straddling his hips with his thighs. Sam's hard on jerks at his words, little beads of precum coating through his pajama bottoms where Dean is still in jeans. Dean leans down and sighs happily, nuzzling Sammy's neck and peppering feather light kisses across that long-ass throat, and there is no way in hell Dean is being girly so stfu. "You like this, don't you, baby? See you do. Dick standing up for me all hard and pretty."

 Sam doesn't move at all for a long while, but he finally nods, just barely, eyes all wide and wet and cheeks still pink and tear-stained. "Yeah. Like it." His lips are slack and Dean's chest is pulling so tight he doesn't even know what to do. He just wants to hold Sammy close, run fingers through his hair and _shhh_ him and dry his face. "Like it a lot, De." Dean's skin tingles everywhere and he's so fucking hard his cock's gonna bust his pants at the seams. Sammy is looking at him with those puppy dog eyes, those eyes that even after twenty two years Dean still can't say no to.

  "Whadaya want, baby boy?" Sam moans in the back of his throat, more like a whimper, and pushes his skinny hips against Dean's wantonly, eyes dropping closed. Dean's dick fattens up even more, oozes dribbles of precome hot and smeary all over the head, sliding down the shaft, feels so thick pressed to Sam's through his pajama pants. "Want me to lick you open first, get you all wet and sloppy for me. Bet you'd like that, wouldn't you?" Dean palms his hand down a long tan torso, thick fingers slipping under the waist band of Sam's pants. “You're so hard, aren't you? Bet you're about to come all over me. Bet it hurts, doesn’t it, Sammy? You want me to take it out? Get that big boy dick out?” The moan that leaves Sam's mouth is fucking filthy, like, sex phone operator, porn video filthy. His eyes roll back into his head and he gasps so so loud in the heated stillness of their motel room. Dean lean's down and latches bubble gum lips over the long column of his throat.

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” He groans.  _Fuck._

  “Yeah,” Sam whimpers, fucking _whimpers_. “Yeah. Please.”

  "Fuck, Sammy," Dean breathes, and grinds down hard and slow, pulling more of those marshmallow moans out of his boy . "Perfect little dick—look how hard you are for me. You get hard for your De? Hmm?" Sam nods rapidly, hands clenching tight in the comforter and knees pulling up around Dean's hips. "Say it, baby boy."  
  
"Got hard for you, De," His baby boy's limbs are heavy and limp, tiny brother mouth open and panting while his eyes glaze over.

 "Whadaya want, baby? Anything, fucking anything you want, just tell me-" He'd give Sammy anything, do anything, didn't know any words besides _yes yes please_ burning through his nervous system. "Tell me Sammy, tell me what you want, anything you want,  _please-"_

Big brown eyes meet candy apple green.

 Sam swallows.

 "Tell me what to do."

  


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I FINALLY FINISHED IT!  
> Ya'll have been bugging me for the past three months and I pulled though for ya because I love you and I finally had a free weekend! (I finally gave u the porn ok be happy)  
> Happy Thanksgiving my lovelies!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Split perspectives between both Sam and Dean.

  Dean doesn't believe in God.

  It may sound slightly hypocritical, since he hunted werewolves and banshees and ghouls for a living. But he could touch them, see them, feel them bleed. They were real and alive under his hands, a physical force that he could prove beyond a shadow of a doubt was real. God, on the other hand, was a racist sonofabitch who wouldn't let people eat shellfish.  

  He believed in Hell. He'd excorsized enough demons this past year to realize that you went somewhere after you died, _became_ something after you died, dark and vile and twisted. He was halfway there, one foot in the pit and the other left bleeding in the grass. But he didn't believe in God.

  That didn't seem to stop him from praying, begging,  _pleading_ for forgiveness from the unknown deity who let his mama burn on the ceiling.

  "De?" Sammy whispered under him, sticky kissed dimples frowning at the stark white ash of his big brothers face.

  It takes Dean getting his legs around dead weight thighs, takes sinking his nervous hands into the hair of a begging boy, takes putting the only person Dean’s ever made Valentine’s cards for on his back, making him tremble like the unfired gun in a first timer’s hand.

  Takes Sam clawing at his own hair, drunken words slipping from a girlfriend kissed mouth, _n_ _eed you to boss me around, t_ _ell me what to do, tell me what you want, tell me tellmetellme-_ unshy eyes and desperation for it to sink in.

 The gravity of what he's doing slams into him like a pound of bricks.

_the fuq u doin hoe._

Dean leaned down experimentally, dread seeping into his bones as he breathed against Sammy's ear, "You want me to order you around?"

  Sammy's sweet marshmallow moan drives an icepick through his chest.

  "Sam, how long have you been thinking about this?" After the words slip out, terrified and in denial, Sam's just completely still. Eyes squeezed shut, face so red—Dean can feel Sam's heart pounding where their chests touch.  
  
 "When?" Dean asks, not more than a whisper, staring so hard, not quite believing it. "When did this start?"  
  
  Sam just presses his lips together, squeezes his eyes shut tighter, and shakes his head.  
  
  "Sammy—Sammy, you gotta tell me when this started. Open your eyes right now. That's an order." Everything's sort of fuzzy, and there's this sick knot coming back up like bad tacos at the base of his throat, everything he fears rearing to the surface in a tidal wave of guilt.  
  
 Sammy blinks his eyes open, wet at the corners, and stares at something on the ceiling instead of at Dean. He's shaking all over.  
  
 " _Fucking tell me._ " Dean flinches at the moan that drags out of him, eyes widening as if he's helpless to the tone, to the _Daddy voice._

\-----------------------------------------

  

  Sam believes in God.

  It may sound slightly hypocritical, since logic dictates that believing some racist dude in the sky who hates gay people and women made the earth in seven days makes you either high or retarded. But there was a part of him, the part that knew how to take out a Werewolf and salt and burn a ghost, that thought ruling out the impossible was a dumb move.

  But even though he prayed, sheepishly and embarrassed, every night since he was four, he was begging,  _pleading_ , wishing with all his heart, that God did not exist.

  "De?" Sammy whispered under Dean's frozen figure, confusion morphing into panic as he felt Dean's erection flag too fast, horror spreading across his face at Sam's words. Fuck, he shouldn't have said anything, should've kept his stupid mouth shut and now Dean was gonna think he was a freak and it had all been going so  _well-_

 Dean leaned down stiffly, humiliation coating Sam's skin as he breathed out in that voice, _that voice_ , "You want me to order you around?"

  Sam couldn't keep in the moan, almost squeaking in embarrassment afterwards as  _that voice_ coated his limbs in burgundy honey and sugar sweet molasses.  "Sam, how long have you been thinking about this?" After the words slip out, steadiness replaced by something far to close to horror for Sam's taste, the spell is broken, and Sam realizes the full impact of the question. He goes completely still.  Eyes squeezed shut, face so red—Dean could probably feel his heart pounding where their chests touch.  
  
 "When?" Dean asks, not more than a whisper, _what the fuck is he supposed to say? 'Hey, remember when you spit in my mouth and called me a bitch and I almost came in my pants? Good times, good times.._.' "When did this start?"  
  
  Sam just presses his lips together, squeezes his eyes shut tighter, and shakes his head.  
  
  "Sammy—Sammy, you gotta tell me when this started. Open your eyes right now. That's an order."

  Sammy blinks his eyes open, wet at the corners, and stares at a water stain on the ceiling instead of at Dean. He's shaking all over.  
  
  " _Fucking tell me, bitch._ " Dean flinches at the moan that drags out of him, eyes widening because he's helpless to that tone, that voice, that  _Daddy voice._

Dean looks like he's hyperventilating, so Sam finally relents and says,  _what the fuck is wrong with you, he's gonna hate you, you_ freak, "H-hey, remember when you spit in my mouth last month?"

  WRONG THING TO SAY YOU FRICKING IDIOT.

  Dean's eyes go wide and his lips draw into a hard line. "Yes, Sam. I remember."

  Sam laughs awkwardly, breathless and red and  _why is this happening to him,_ "W-well, I don't know if you've n-noticed, but you kinda...have this voice..."

  His eyes snap shut. "My voice."

  Sam's breath hitches.

  "That was last month.  "

  "...yes."

  "Sam, be honest with me here: Did you ever think about us...together... _before_ I spit in your mouth?"

  "...no."

  Dean shook his head and swallowed thickly. "I can't do this."

 

\------------------------------------

 

   Well. A knee to the abdomen hurts a _lot_ worse with a hard on, turns out.

  Dean's eyes open, staring incredulously down at his suddenly  _furious_ brother. 

  " _You_ can't do this!?"

  " _Watch the goods holy shit-"_

 "Do you have  _any idea_ how hard this has been on me!?" A pillow unexpectedly slams into the side of Dean's face, sending him sprawling to the floor. "It's been killing me, Dean! I can't fucking _think straight_ when I'm around you!" Sam is suddenly on the floor right next to him, wacking him hard with the motel pillow before Dean can get his balance back. The hand that's had a death grip on the edge of the comforter doesn't let up, instead dragging the whole thing down on top of them.

  "You think this has been all sunshine and daisy's for  _me!?_ " Sam has the height advantage, but Dean is running on enough heartache and annoyance to power a small plane. He brings a pillow down  _hard_ on top of Sam's head, which brings forth a girly shriek and Dean's getting pummeled by a lap full of Sasquatch. 

  "YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND!" Dean snorts at that, 14 year old rebellious streak popping right out of the cracks of the 6"4 man baby. "You would bang anything that moves you stupid fucking nympho!" 

  Dean sees red. "IS THAT WHAT YOU THINK THIS IS!?" He hooks his leg under Sam's knee and flips them over, slamming Sam's back into the ground and going to town on his face with the pillow. Fluff is starting to fly around the room and he's pretty sure that crashing sound was the table lamp. “You  _stupid_  little _punk_!” 

  Sam screams into the linen currently being held against his face. Dean feels his throat clench up, that same conflict of sickness and  _don't you dare_ eating up his insides. “You stupid,  _stupid_  boy!”  
  
 Sam finally dislodges the pillow, hands slamming up against his head by Dean's fury. He tries to shove him off.  

 _“Don’t!”_  The word comes out fiercer and uglier than it has any right to be. Dean likes it.  “This doesn't even fucking _matter_ to you.”

 "You're my  _brother."_  He feels like he's dying, throat clogged up because he wantswantswants but he can't do this.

 "SO WHAT!?" Sam headbutts him in the chin so hard his vision goes fuzzy. When he comes back on line Sam's scrambling to get back up, kicking out and screaming when Dean flattens him back down on his stomach which was a  _bad idea_ because now he's digging up right against Sam's ass  _I can't do this please-_

  Sam's hair is hopelessly tangled, shoulders drawn taught. "If you don't want me than just tell me." Dean can't see his face. Just his messy long hair sticking sweaty to the back of his neck.

 

\---------------------------------

 

 Sam is an idiot. Probably the biggest retard on the planet.

 Dean's fingers dig into his hips, and whoa jerking back was a bad idea, because now he's grinding back against Dean and it's making it hard to breathe.

 "Sammy, that's bullshit." Teeth clenched, voice rough as sawdust against the back of his neck. "That's a bunch of bu-ullshh _Sa-ammy,"_ Dean's groaning low, hips pistening forward and  _oh my god his voice._

 "Prove it." Sam can't breathe, can't breathe, can't focus on anything but the cock rubbing against his ass ohgod. "Prove you want me."

 "Sammy..."

 "Please."

 Sam's feels raw and stiff. He should have never closed his eyes.   
    
 And then Dean grabs Sam's hair as he’s crawling away, his head and spine snapping taut as his toes curl from pain and then there are hands sliding underneath his shirt, pushing it up, far enough to cover his head, his face, but not far enough to come off.  
  
 And the hands slide back down and under him, unhooking and unbinding him-- belt, zipper, denim tugged down in a hobble over his knees ohmygod  _Yes. Yes, this. Just like this._  
  
 He’s so hard, already moaning and panting and burning. It’s the smell of Dean-gunoil, aftershave, whiskey, metal, and that other darker, muskier scent, male and overwhelming.

 And it’s like when Sam was younger, small in a way he hasn't been in years. He's sightless and hot, trapped in his shirt, his mouth dry and his throat clicking with every swallow. His jeans are around his knees, cold air raising goosebumps on the back of his thighs. He jerks when he feels Dean pressing his dick, fuck, _Dean's dick,_ huge and hot and Sam wishes he could see it, wants to touch it so badly his teeth ache, press flush up against his ass, just letting it rub all up against him. He shakes weakly and buries his face in the ground and whimpers there. 

 Dean clamps his gorgeous mouth into Sam's neck and grinds against him and they don’t speak for a long time, just rub against each other, all panting breath and the slick sounds between them. He presses his lips to Sam’s ear, sucking on his earlobe.

 "Jesus fuck, Sam..." he's thrown off center when the heavy weight along his back is lifted, flinching at the puff of breath against his ass, feels teeth scrape against places that have never been touched before. "So fuckin' good for me, Sammy, fuck," Sam squeezes his eyes tight and pushes his ass up, reaching back to tug one cheek back.

 “Dean,  _o-oh,"_   Sam's stomach drops at the first touch of Dean's tongue against him, dragging flat and hot.

 "God, I'd fill you up so good. So tight for me, baby. Such a tight little hole." Dean grunts low in his throat, hands kneading up the backs of his shaking thighs. Sam's squirming hot and breathless, Dean's thumbs spreading his hole so that he can shove his tongue inside. "Need it so bad, don't you? Need me to fill you up, fuck you till you can't move?"

 Sam is nodding so quick and so hard that it makes him dizzy, reaching back with both hands now to hold himself open completely. From this angle, Sam guesses Dean can see everything. His face is pushing up against him, stubble scraping over soft skin ohmygod _ohmygod_. He moans, a low, aching sound that he buries into the scratchy carpet. Dean's hands tightens on his ass and he pushes his tongue even deeper. 

 “Shit you make me think about, things I wanna do to you. Wanna make you cry, shit.” That voice is filthy, groaning out and Sam is so hard that he’s about to cry. He grinds down, desperate for something, _anything_ to relieve the pressure on his dick as Dean shoves his tongue up inside of him and wraps his lips around Sam's hole and sucks. Dean's holding him in place with one hand, other hand reaching up to tug on his balls as Sam rides his face and he just lets him, baby brother Sammy riding his tongue. 

 “Wanna put my fingers in you, god, please Sammy? Please, gotta feel you,” And fuck, he nearly jumps out of his skin when he feels them circle around his hole, wet and completely foreign. He forces the first knuckle inside of him and he goes so tense, back arching and he almost starts begging right then. Dean's finger is pressing into him, steady and thick and he opens up around him, loose from his tongue  _oh god, oh Jesus._ Sam actually  _whimpers,_ and it's too fast, Dean's going in so fast and then it's out, _in, out, in, out..._

 “Ohmygod, you’re so tight. Such a pretty little thing, fucking made for my cock. Look how needy you are for it. Would you spread your legs for me and let me do you raw? Let me come in you? Would you be my little baby right now? Would you, Sammy?”

 “Yes.” He sobs so hard it hurts and he’s saying everything deep inside of him, every single thing he has to bury down deep even when he’s alone and he has his hand on his dick and the images come unbidden to his mind. " _Yes,_ oh my god yes, Daddy, fuck..."

 Whoops.

 Dean's fingers aren't moving anymore. Sam feels like he's gonna puke.

 "Shit, Dean I'm sorry, I'm so sorry I didn't mean to say that-" Sam's heart is pounding out of his chest, eyes clouding up in embarrassment and shame at his stupid,  _stupid_ mouth, he's such a freak  _shitshitshit._

 Dean's breathing hard, puffs of hot breathe that make Sam shiver, make him squirm on his hand, and his fingers crook up inside him-

 

\--------------------------

 

 Sam yells, eyes watering as a steady stream of precome trickles out of him. “Right there god yes right there, oh my god Daddy please please please fuck me right there, don’t fucking stop.”

 Dean’s arm is fucking killing him but he doesn’t stop, he listens to the letter and he fucks his fingers hard against his prostate, his mouth uncoordinated on Sam's ass and so he’s just licking and sucking and biting at him and he can feel it when he moans, when he clenches up so tight around his fingers that it almost hurts. He can see Sam's toes curling into the cheap carpeting under thier feet, knows his eyes are probably half-way back in his head as he shudders into his hands, feels his abs working under his forearms, little keening noises out of Sam's throat that have Dean leaking all over the damn place.

 "That's it, baby, so good for Daddy, so fucking hot for me," Dean's lightheaded, has to take a deep breathe to keep from blowing his wad at the word.  _Daddy._ He spits on the wrinkled pucker his fingers are sinking into, stretching it wider when he adds his ring finger along with the other two. Sam groans and slaps the ground twice.

 “What do you want, Sammy?” He withdraws his fingers, Sam keening at the loss until he realizes what it means. Dean bites the back of his neck, sweaty curls itching his nose. “What do you want Daddy to do?” Rubs the head of his cock against him, fuck he's so wet, so ready. Sam spreads his legs wider, jeans still tangled around his ankles while Dean's are bunched up around his thighs. "Want Daddy to fuck you, baby boy? Need your Daddy's big cock in you, don't you? Come on, baby, wanna hear it, say please... “

 Sam lets out a sob, digging his fingers into the comforter he dragged from the bed. "Dean..."

 "Come on, Sammy. I know you can do it. Know you can be a good boy for me." He covers Sam's clenching hand with his own, not big enough to cover the whole thing. It's almost surprising. Sam's shaking under him, breath coming out high and heavy with little  _ng_ 's coming out every few seconds. "Say it, baby. Tell me what you want."

 Sam shudders. "I want you to f-fuck me."

 "Say it again."

 "Dean-"

 "I gave you a fucking order."

 _"Fuck,_ Daddy, please, fuck me, fuck me-"

 Dean sinks all the way in, wet, tight heat making his breathe punch out of him in an "ugh." Sam sounds like he's crying, pushing back so hard that Dean nearly bites his tongue off to hold on. "Come on, baby boy, come on, open up for me." He's thrusting all the way in, knows he's hitting his prostate by the way he cries out, the way he's clenching Dean's hand hard enough to break. Dean lets out a deep, guttural groan and tries to slow down.

 "Oh my god, Dean, Daddy, w-what, please," Pulling him in deeper, and that's it, Dean's gone. Filled up with too much love, too much Sam, too much to feel at once. He gets his hand braced on his baby's hips, just above his ass and starts to pound into him.

 “Ugh.” Sam is reaching back for him, his hand scrabbling along Dean’s ribs as he tenses and relaxes, as Dean works inside of him. He can see the dark mole on the side of Sam's neck when he curls his body over him, practically laying on him now, making Sam hold his weight while he changes angles so that he can reach his spot with every thrust. Dean grunts, a chest-deep sound, and Sam's knees give out under him, trapped under Dean’s big body, looking so absolutely small under him, so breakable under his bulk. Dean reaches around him and rubs his hand along his chest till he zeros in on Sam's nipples, fingers clasping and he just tugs. Sam is giving it back as hard as he's getting it, legs open wide as they can go and Dean is right on top of him, body melded to Sam's, belly right up in the curve of his back. He’s fucking him so deep they’re both making sounds like they can feel it and sobbing with each thrust, the soft please-please-please-daddy-pleases like a CD skipping.

 “Take it, fucking take it. So fucking dirty how much you love my dick in your ass. Fucking come on my dick. Right now. Now.” Dean can't breathe properly, can't stop, fucking him with all of his weight and he just about dies when Sam comes, shaking apart right there on the musty motel carpet, hanging off of Dean’s dick. His rhythm falters and he thrusts in almost brutally, driving up deep and locking in and just staying there, his entire body tense and trembling and Sammy, his beautiful, wonderful, baby boy is dragging his head down to kiss him, face streaked with tears and snot and something like heaven. 

 When he comes, it's with Sammy's name in his throat and his tongue in his mouth.

 

\-------------------------------

 

 Sam comes down to find Dean lying half-over him, humming an off-key, tuneless song,and Sam can't make his throat work when he realizes Dean apparently has no intention to stop playing with Sam's soft cock.

 Sam feels his face heat, feels his chest flutter. If he wasn't too wrung out to move, he'd wrap his legs and arms around Dean and keep him right here where he belongs, _forever,_ snug against him.

 "Hey baby," Dean says.

 Sam feels his face burn, lowers his eyes to the stretched out neck of his t-shirt. "I...listen, De-"

 Sam finds himself being kissed, messy and hot and he can't breathe, his cock still in Dean's hand, before Dean leans back and grins at him so wide and cocky that Sam wants to either punch him in the face or kiss him again. His smile wavers, however, and something that looks like sadness clouds his brothers green eyes.

 

 "Sam. Look. I've never. You know. Lied to myself. About this," Dean gestures between them. With the hand not molesting Sam. "But I haven't exactly been acting on it. For obvious reasons that I ain't getting into because I might change my mind and freak you out more than you probably already are..." Dean presses his face into Sam's chest, and Sam's breathing stops when he feels the hand on his dick travel back, fingers rubbing into his still open hole.

 "And...I'm not good at this shit, never have been. But there's nothing in this whole fucking world that I care about more than you." Green eyes meet his own, earnest and embarrassed and Sam feels like laughing, because whatever happened to  _no chick flick moments?_

 

 A tiny, nervous smile cracks his face open wide, making the corners of his eyes squint up. “And the problem is, uh, mostly that I, uh. I think I’m kind of in love with you.”

 

 Sam's breathing is kind of heavy, what with Dean's finger still fucking into him, and it takes a second for him to realize what Dean just said. "I think I'm kind of in love with you, too."

 He's suddenly peppered with kisses before Dean crushes him in a desperate embrace. "Idiot," Dean murmurs into his ear, finds Sam's mouth and takes it in a sloppy kiss.

 "Does this mean you'll stop putting Tabasco sauce in my coffee?"

 "No way in hell, bitch."

 And they laugh and laugh and laugh, wrapped up in some weird kind of beautiful.

 

 

 


End file.
